The Extra's Rise-Chapter 270: Rachel Creighton (3)

I looked at Rachel and analysed her.

Her personality was currently a bit broken.

By broken I meant way not like usual.

She was usually composed, intelligent and saintly. The Rachel I knew carried herself with a quiet dignity that commanded respect without demanding it. Her words were measured, her actions deliberate, her compassion genuine but never overwhelming. She had always been the steady one, the voice of reason when everything else descended into chaos.

Not like this.

This Rachel—fidgeting, emotional, desperate for validation—was almost a stranger wearing a familiar face. The dissonance was jarring, like hearing a beloved song played in the wrong key.

'What happened?' I wondered.

'She needs validation from you,' Luna said, her voice unusually solemn. 'For some reason, her proof of originality is revolving around you and you alone.'

I frowned, studying Rachel's face more carefully. Beneath the veneer of childish possessiveness, I could see something darker—a shadow of fear that didn't belong there. Her eyes, normally clear and steady, held a feverish desperation that made my chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Rachel," I began, choosing my words with care, "when exactly did I fall into a coma?"

She blinked, momentarily caught off-guard by the question. "Right after the battle with Bishop Vale. You collapsed as soon as I started healing you."

"And you've been here the entire time?"

Something flashed across her expression—guilt, perhaps, or defensiveness. "Someone had to make sure you were safe."

"For an entire month?" I pressed, not unkindly.

Rachel's fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress, her knuckles whitening. "The Bishop is still out there," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And the cult... they might have tried to finish what they started."

There was more to it than that—I could tell from the way she wouldn't quite meet my eyes. Rachel wasn't just protecting me from external threats. She was guarding against something else entirely.

"Rachel," I said softly, "what aren't you telling me?"

The silence stretched between us, taut and fragile. Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, a gentle rhythm that only emphasized the tension in the room.

Finally, she exhaled, a shaky breath that seemed to deflate her.

"You almost died," she whispered. "Not just injured, not just unconscious. You were dying, Arthur."

Her voice cracked on my name, and I saw the first glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"Your body was rejecting itself. Whatever you did during that battle—using Reika's Gift, pushing yourself beyond your limits—it tore you apart from the inside. Your mana channels were shredded, your organs failing one by one."

She looked up at me then, and the raw pain in her eyes hit me like a physical blow.

"I healed you," she continued, her voice steadying slightly. "I poured everything I had into keeping you alive. But it wasn't enough. You wouldn't wake up, and I couldn't figure out why."

She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "The royal physicians said there was nothing more to be done. That you might never wake up. That your mind had retreated too far to be reached."

Understanding began to dawn, a cold realization that sank into my bones.

"So you stayed," I murmured.

Rachel nodded, a tear finally escaping to trace a silver path down her cheek. "I stayed. I channeled my Gift into you every day, hour after hour, trying to reach whatever part of you was still fighting. I thought... I thought if I just tried hard enough, if I just loved you enough..."

She trailed off, her composure finally crumbling. Tears flowed freely now, her shoulders shaking with the force of emotions too long suppressed.

"I was so scared," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Every day that passed, it felt like I was losing more of you. And I couldn't... I couldn't bear the thought of a world without you in it."

Something twisted in my chest—a complicated tangle of guilt, affection, and realization. This wasn't just about possessiveness or jealousy. This was about fear. Raw, primal fear of loss.

I reached out, hesitating only briefly before placing my hand over hers.

"Rachel," I said quietly, "look at me."

She raised her head, tears still streaming down her face, her usual composure nowhere to be found.

"I'm here," I told her. "I'm awake. Whatever you did, it worked."

"You're exhausted," I said, not a question but a statement of fact. "Physically, mentally, emotionally. You've been pouring your Gift into me for weeks, with no rest, no reprieve."

She nodded minutely, as if admitting weakness was still difficult despite everything.

Her voice cracked again, fresh tears welling in her eyes. "I can't lose you, Arthur. I just can't. Everyone else sees the prodigy, the strategist, the genius with limitless potential. But I see you. And the thought of a world without you in it is... it's unbearable."

Something shifted inside me then, a quiet realization that had perhaps been there all along, waiting to be acknowledged.

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I reached out, gently taking her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away her tears.

"Rachel," I said softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

Her breath hitched, hope and disbelief warring in her expression.

"I can't promise I won't get hurt again," I continued, holding her gaze steadily. "I can't promise that everything will be safe or easy. But I can promise you this: I want you in my life. Not just as a healer, not just as a friend. As someone essential to me."

I could feel Luna's surprise rippling through our connection, but I ignored it, focusing solely on the woman before me.

"I've been a fool," I admitted. "So focused on the big picture, on strategies and plans and long-term goals, that I never properly acknowledged what was right in front of me. What you mean to me."

Rachel went very still, her tears suddenly frozen on her cheeks. "What are you saying?" she whispered.

"I'm saying that I care for you, Rachel. Deeply. I'm saying that when I look at my future, I can't imagine it without you there."

It wasn't an empty declaration. The words came from a place of genuine realization, of pieces finally falling into place. Rachel had always been there, steady and unwavering. She had seen me at my worst and still chosen to stay—not because of what I could do, but because of who I was.

"I need you," I said simply. "Not just your Gift, not just your abilities. You. Your intelligence, your compassion, your strength. The way you see the world, the way you face challenges. All of it."

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but these were different—the release of tension rather than the grip of fear.

"I've been so afraid," she admitted, her voice steadying slightly. "Watching you with Reika, with the princesses... I've been terrified that there wouldn't be room for me. That I'd be left behind."

"Never," I said firmly. "You will always have a place with me, Rachel. Always."

She drew in a shaky breath, then another, steadier one. Something in her eyes began to clear, the feverish desperation giving way to something more centered, more like the Rachel I knew.

"I'm sorry," she said, a hint of her old composure returning. "For how I've been acting. For the... restraints." A flash of embarrassment crossed her face. "I don't know what came over me."

"Magical exhaustion, emotional trauma, and a month of keeping someone alive through sheer force of will," I suggested dryly. "I think you're entitled to a little irrationality."

A small, tentative smile curved her lips—the first genuine one I'd seen since waking. "Still. It wasn't like me."

"No," I agreed. "But the core of it was very much you, Rachel. The devotion, the determination, the refusal to give up on someone you care about. Those are all quintessentially Rachel Creighton."

She laughed softly, the sound a little watery but real. "You always see the best in me."

"I see all of you," I corrected. "The good, the challenging, the complicated. And I value all of it."

Her expression softened, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders. She wasn't completely back to her usual self—there was still a wariness in her eyes, a lingering fear of loss—but the worst of the emotional storm had passed.

She was still holding on to me, her grip perhaps a bit tighter than strictly necessary, but the frantic possessiveness had eased into something more measured, more sustainable. She would likely remain protective, perhaps always more afraid of losing me than was entirely reasonable, but the core of who she was—intelligent, compassionate, steady—was reasserting itself.